Somewhere along the way, we got the idea that we are supposed to think in perfectly neat single-file lines. We don't. We think in millions of idea bubbles. Sometimes, all those thought bubbles overwhelm us and we just have to let them pop. Don't hold it in. Speak. Be heard. You have a voice, too.

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Friday, February 27, 2015

Real or Not Real

“Trauma fractures comprehension as a pebble shatters a windshield. The
wound at the site of impact spreads across the field of vision, obscuring
reality and challenging belief.” - Jane Leavy

Time, I have found, is not an automatic healer of wounds.
Just when we think enough time has passed and we are settled into life after a
trauma, that small, wounded part of us reopens and reminds us just how damaged
we truly are.

This happened to me last night.

A little over a year ago, as I’ve written in a previous
post, we lost our home to a fire. Seeing the house on fire, the enormous
flames, the huge billowing clouds of black smoke was horrible. Watching the
firefighters go into that inferno, knowing they were risking themselves for our
home, was frightening. Walking through the house afterward was devastating. We
picked our way through the wet ruins of the house and saw our belongings
charred, water-logged, and smoke-damaged. The awesome power of fire was
completely, unquestionably, driven home to us all.

I was glad for one thing: we were not home when the fire
began. My children did not have to know the fear and panic of trying to escape
from a burning home. But the fear of it happening again is still with me. They investigated,
of course, to determine the cause of the fire but were unable to pinpoint a
cause. This bothers me. I want to know. I want to know why my house suddenly
caught fire. I want to know so that I can make certain that it will not happen
in this house.

As I was looking at houses, one house had a smoke detector
that kept beeping. The battery needed to be replaced. I couldn’t handle that.
While the fire was in full blaze at the old house, what was amazing was I could
hear the smoke detectors going off in the rooms the fire had not yet reached. I
will never forget that. That new house was automatically scratched off my list.
When we moved into this house, my dad did not mock my jumpiness. He supported
me. With his help, we had smoke alarms installed in every bedroom, hallway, the
kitchen, laundry room, garage, and bathroom. Every room of the house, actually.
Is this overkill? Maybe. But I have to feel safe. My children have to feel
safe.

Which brings me back to last night.

I occasionally have severe flashes of PTSD from various
traumas that have occurred in my life. It seems to be dealer’s choice on which
trauma will be triggered. Last night was a bad one. Around 2:30 in the morning,
as I lay tossing and turning from the pain in my shoulder, my smoke alarm began
beeping. The red light flashed and the automated voice repeated, “Fire! Fire! Fire!” I shot out of bed, my
heart pounding. The fire was not in my room. My first thought was getting to
the girls.

I ran to the girls’ hallway, but there was no sign of smoke.
I quickly checked their rooms to make sure they were clear of fire. I made the
decision not to wake them yet while I checked the rest of the house.

The den, kitchen, dining room, laundry room, and garage were
all clear as well. That only left the attic. I did not want to climb into the
attic at 2:45 in the morning, but I had to know. Clad only in my nightgown,
sweating with fear and shivering with cold at the same time, I pulled down the
steps in the garage to access the attic. Once my head popped through the
ceiling, I knew we were safe. There was no fire. There was no smoke.

But why was my smoke alarm going off?

Wait.

I walked back into the house and stood for a moment,
listening. When we had the smoke detectors installed, we had them all
daisy-chained together: if one went off, they would all go off. If there were a
fire in one room, all alarms would sound. So why would my smoke alarm have been the only one to go off? And why would the
voice have sounded exactly like Siri’s? For that matter, why did my smoke alarm
even have a voice?

It wasn’t real.

I wasn’t dreaming. I was awake when I saw the lights
flashing and heard the voice. My mind
did that to me. It lied to me. I don’t
know what triggered it. I’ve tried to trace it back, tried to find something
that I did yesterday or saw yesterday, that would have made it happen, but I
have come up with nothing. It just happened.

I didn’t go back to sleep. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I
lay there, awake, taking comfort in the only thing I could: the steady,
reassuring green light shining from the smoke alarm in my room and knowing
that, at least for the moment, all was well.